Moving On
by avi17
Summary: Desmond reminisces about past mistakes, until Charlie comes and snaps him out of it.  And ends up making the morning far more eventful. [A bit of angst, mild slash, and some heartwarming fun.]


My god...I'm not going to lie- I am madly in love with this fic. It's easily my favourite LOST piece I've written so far, and possibly one of my favourite pieces I've _ever_ written. It's also, I believe, the longest oneshot I've ever written. When I started writing this, I wasn't expecting it to be anything like the way it came out. But I've been experimenting with writing styles, and I wanted to try something new. Suffice to say, I'll probably be writing like this again. Another goal was to create a story that was well-rounded in its genres. Usually, my writings are very depressing, or very cute and fluffy, or just silly. I wanted to write something that was a realistic combination of genres, and I really hope I've succeeded as well as I think I have.

**Notes and Warnings**: Not much, actually. Pairings are an implied past!Desmond/Penny and a very mild Desmond/Charlie. As usual, it can also be interpreted as close friendship if that is what the reader chooses. The only other warning I can think of is that there's quite a bit of British swear words. XD **Takes place shortly after the episode "Catch 22".**

Enjoy!

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_Moving On_

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It was too early in the morning for whiskey. Mind you, there wasn't any real way to tell time on the island- they didn't exactly have access to replacement watch batteries- but Desmond knew that when the sun wasn't even to the high noon point yet, it was _definitely_ too early for whiskey. Still, though, the half-empty bottle sitting a few feet away in the sand where he had carelessly dropped it the night before was tempting almost to the point of mocking him, _daring_ him to come be a coward and drown his problems in alcohol like he did all too often. He pulled his knees to his chest, curling up to keep his entire body in the meager shade that his makeshift tent's roof provided and cursing under his breath as the cool morning breeze blew a section of his matted brown hair into his face. He had the photograph in his hands, that spontaneous street-corner photograph of himself and Penny in front of a pull-down screen background, and he stared wistfully at it. He did this often, and had through all the lonely years in the army and the hatch- remembering, almost _pining_ for another time, a better time.

Today, his first thought was how ironic it was that the background depicted that lovely marina scene. They had never actually been to a marina, had they?

He sighed, a mixture of depression and frustration. Lately, he had begun to feel like he was only staring at that picture out of habit, because he was used to doing it. Staring because he felt obligated to, and maybe because he was afraid of even the possibility of giving up...of moving on. His old life in the real world felt so far away, but the memories were all he really had.

Shaking his head, he gathered up a handful of the deceptively soft sand, trying in vain to focus on nothing but the smooth yet scratchy sensation as it slipped back through his fingers. What little of an old life he'd had no longer existed, not really. He had never even had a steady, paying job, let alone a career, and that day at the stadium... When he had looked over his shoulder and seen Penny there, staring back at him through glassy blue eyes, there had been a million things he had wanted to say, to do. He could have asked her how her life had been without him there, and he knew she would have told him honestly, however tactless the question and however painful the answer. In his mind, he vividly recalled the stark-white cardboard box, stuffed full of every memory, every thought or feeling, every admission of love he had wanted to share with her in the last three years. He could have told her everything that her father had done, could have apologized for how much it had hurt her, and she would have forgiven him in an instant. If he'd had the nerve to approach her, embrace her, kiss away the tears that had begun to fall, reassure her that she still meant the world to him...she would have come back.

Instead, he had turned away from her, fumbling with the flimsy plastic clip that held together the nylon straps of the pack around his waist, and asked her when her wedding would be. Of course, she had told him what she knew, but the conversation had barely gone on another minute before he had run away from her like he always did, and she had slammed the door of her expensive car and sped away.

Growing even more despondent, Desmond glanced again at the increasingly tempting whiskey bottle, pushing stubborn tangles of hair out of his face as the wind blew them there yet again. She was probably married now, and he knew that probably should have bothered him more than it did. Really, though...he had been so utterly convinced that she was perfect for him, that she was so different from other women, and yet he had run away from her- from commitment- just as he had with every one of them. It wasn't as though he didn't still care for her to some extent, but she deserved better than him anyways. And all of that, the whole ordeal, was over now. His life was here on the island- with the people on the island- and perhaps always would be. He tried mentally to convince himself to just put the photograph away, but still couldn't.

"You know, you don't look half bad with your hair short like that."

Startled out of his reminiscence, Desmond jerked his head up and his eyes met a bright blue-green stare, slightly hidden by dripping-wet strands of dirty blond hair. Charlie looked far more awake than Desmond felt as he stood there, looking at the photograph with mild interest and leaning lightly on his beat-up guitar- the places where it had been clumsily repaired with salvaged metal and bits of twig after its owner's last brush with death were easily visible. His black and grey striped t-shirt and baggy khaki pants were soaked as well, and there was a growing patch of wet sand beneath his bare feet. The unkempt Scotsman offered his visitor a lopsided grin. "G'morning, brothah!" Chuckling lightly, he joked, "Someone's lookin' bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today."

Raising an eyebrow, Charlie replied sarcastically, "Sorry, Des, but I think Aaron might've chewed off my bushy tail last time I played with him."

As the younger man plopped down in the tiny square of the tent's shade and rested his guitar carefully against the nearest tree, Desmond began to chuckle louder. "Those wee little things and their teething, aye?" He scooted over a bit so Charlie could sit more comfortably. "They say at that age, once they get somethin' in their mouth, chances are you'll neva' see it again."

Charlie pretended to look offended, but he was laughing as well as he retorted, "Aw, what would you know 'bout it?"

Desmond smiled again. "Not as much as you would, brothah. Neva' had any little ones myself." His expression turned thoughtful and he glanced quickly around the beach and the scattering of makeshift tents. "Speaking of tha', why aren't you with Claire and the baby?" He waited a moment for a response, and was surprised when he picked up a hint of annoyance in Charlie's voice.

"Knock that off, would you?"

Somewhat confused, Desmond asked a bit hesitantly, "What's tha' s'posed ta mean, brothah?" Surely Charlie would want to spend as much time with his girl as possible. She needed constant care and attention in a place like the island, where harm could come to her or her child at any moment, right?

"Don't get me wrong!" Charlie exclaimed hurriedly, waving a hand back and forth. "I made sure they were perfectly safe before I left." His eyebrows knotted a bit in irritation. "It's just that every time I'm away from Claire for five sodding minutes, I get people looking at me like I'm a nutter for leaving her alone. We're human beings, Des- we'd both go bloody _mad_ if I stood there and literally stared over her shoulder all day."

Desmond's eyebrows seemed to be genuinely in danger of disappearing into his hairline. This wasn't exactly how he was used to hearing men talk about their girls, and he half-wondered if his opinion of the young rocker was somewhat higher than it ought to be. Frowning, he suggested dryly, "Jus' makin' sure I wasn't breaking up the happy couple or anything."

"I could say the same," Charlie retorted meanly, his gaze flickering from Desmond to somewhere in between the photograph he still held and the discarded whiskey bottle. Desmond wasn't quite sure which one the blond-haired man was referring to, but at least had the decency to look sheepish.

Seeming to have picked up on everything the older man had been thinking, Charlie sighed, shaking his head. "Look, mate...Claire's the closest thing I've ever had to a sister, but it's not like she and I are married, or...or Siamese twins or anything like that." Staring determinedly down at the sand around his feet, he stated seriously, "I love Claire and Aaron, and I'd do absolutely anything to protect them- they're my family. Even if-" he swiftly corrected himself, "_when_ we get off this bloody island, they'll still be my family."

Desmond felt a pang of sadness tinged with guilt at Charlie's slightly fatalistic optimism, but was distracted when the younger man looked him straight in the eye and finished, "But I'm not _in _love with her."

Desmond blinked. Wait, so they weren't..._oh._ Deciding to save a consideration of how this revelation could affect his own already complicated relationship with Charlie for a later time, he chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. Almost sounding relieved, he admitted, "Coulda fooled me, brothah."

Charlie only shook his head with a tiny smile, leaning back and letting his eyes slide shut. For a brief moment, the two fell into silence and merely enjoyed the feeling of companionship, of someone else just _being _there and nothing else. Then, curiosity got the better of Desmond as he glanced again at Charlie's soaked hair and clothes, and he asked a tiny bit awkwardly, "So...why're you all wet, eh? I hope there's nobody drownin' this morning."

Laughing airily, the young Brit assured his friend, "'Course not." He snickered and added, "You of all people'd know if there was. I just went for a swim out in the ocean." He rolled his eyes, arching his back and stretching a bit before continuing, "Sun was there as well, and I didn't exactly feel like being murdered by Jin for running 'round in the nuddy in front of his wife, so I just went in my clothes."

Desmond offered a pained smile, laughing loudly to hide how unsettled he was by Charlie's casual joke about his own murder.

Charlie sighed, his manner turning serious. "Look, Desmond..." He began in a strained tone, refusing to meet the other man's eyes and instead staring pointedly out at the deceptively still, deep blue waters of the seemingly endless ocean. "I came over here in the first place because I wanted to...to apologize for what happened the other day. Y'know, when Naomi landed." He forced out the last bit as though it was a painful blow to his pride to do so.

Desmond blinked and did a double-take, hardly able to believe was he was hearing. He turned and stared in utter disbelief at Charlie, but the other man's eyes were still fixed resolutely on the blue horizon. "What th' bloody hell are you apologizin' for, brothah?" he asked loudly, sounding almost angry at Charlie for being able to find something to blame himself for out of the complicated and inconvenient mess that Desmond himself had managed to create.

Charlie's voice was distant as he answered, "I should've been more...grateful. You _did_ save my life, after all. ...Again..." At this last statement, his voice carried a distinct edge of resentment.

At that point, Desmond was about ready to give him a good smack to knock him back to his senses for even thinking that way. The guilt of what he had almost done that he had tried to ignore and suppress came rushing back, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He had almost _let_ Charlie_ die_. He had led them all deep into the jungle, lying to them the whole way, and let them chatter idly on- a conversation that could just as easily have occurred between two innocent children- as they walked straight into a deathtrap that he had known about the entire time. He had been ready- even more than that, he had been _willing_- to let a man with more to live for than he'd _ever_ had _die_. And for what? For a chance to beg for another ruinous relationship with a woman who had been nursing a broken heart for six years.

He imagined the look on her lovely face when she found out that he had as good as killed a good man to get her back and felt even sicker.

Shaking his head defeatedly, he flicked a tiny cloud of sand at the ever-present whiskey bottle and muttered, "I should be the one apologizing, br- Charlie." The blond-haired man's gaze flicked back to Desmond at this, dirty-brown eyebrows arching higher, but almost immediately returned to the sea. Voice growing stronger, Desmond continued, "I made a decision tha' I didn' have any right to make, and it was a...a mistake. I shouldnt've done wha' I did, alright? It's not going ta happen again."

Charlie laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "What if it really is your girl next time, eh? What then?" Before he knew what was happening, Desmond had grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and twisted him around so that they were eye-to-eye, his expression bordering on manic.

"I _won't_ put you in danger like tha' again!" he growled fiercely, his eyes unnaturally wide against his gaunt, suntanned face. His knuckles were white and shaking as his grip on his companion's shoulders grew bruisingly tight.

Wincing slightly in pain, Charlie gestured shakily for the unbalanced man to calm down and soothed nervously, "Easy, mate, easy...I get it, alright?"

Grip faltering and hands falling limply to his sides, Desmond almost seemed to deflate, and he sighed in a mixture of shame, exhaustion, and disappointment. Charlie didn't understand- he _couldn't_ understand. How could he? The brown-haired man jumped in surprise when one of Charlie's arms snaked around his hunched shoulders to pull him into an awkward half-embrace.

"Look, Des..." His voice was so soft that it seemed the gentle island breeze could have drowned it out. Desmond observed blithely that Charlie's accent was thicker, more obvious, the quieter he spoke. He had always liked that accent, because it reminded him so vividly of the part of the world he had once called his home. Charlie shook his head and continued, "I didn't ask for all this, alright? Right now, I'm just...trying to be your friend."

Desmond smiled bitterly. "Why?"

Charlie's boyish face broke into a good-natured grin and he replied honestly, "I dunno. You're a bloody nutter, but I like you."

Desmond smiled back at that, his first genuine smile that day, and he knew at that moment that he meant every word of what he had said- he would never let anything happen to Charlie again, flashes or not. This young man had made it his life's purpose to unselfishly protect the people he loved, and Desmond was surer than he had ever been that it was his own purpose to do the same for him. For a brief moment, he wondered if this devotion qualified as one of the many different kinds of love- putting one person in your life above all others, even yourself, but he decided that he could ponder specifics later. Charlie's arm was still around his shoulders- he could feel the cold, hard metal of the young musician's Driveshaft ring through his thin sleeve- and for a while he only leaned lightly into the embrace, enjoying the feeling of companionship and security. Then, acting on nothing but raw emotion, he turned to the smaller man and wrapped his own arms around him in a bruisingly tight hug, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to fall as he buried his face in damp blond hair that smelled of sea salt.

For a minute, Charlie patted his friend on the back awkwardly, letting out little strained coughs, before finally managing to choke out, "D-Desmond...can't...breathe..." As the embrace loosened, a grin spread across Charlie's face. "Hey, I've got an idea..." He hopped to his bare feet as soon as he was free enough to move. Unfortunately, in all the time he'd been there, he had failed to notice that he had been sitting directly underneath the piece of a wooden beam that served as the topmost support of the tent, and he smacked his head on it hard as he came up. The beam slipped out of the hastily-tied knot of frayed rope that held it up, and the entire flimsy structure fell apart with a loud clatter. Mere moments later, Desmond found himself sitting on the wide open beach, blinking confusedly at the pile of fabric and wood splinters that had been his tent and Charlie.

"_Bollocks!_" the pile exclaimed.

Desmond couldn't keep himself from laughing as he got to his own feet and began tossing aside the torn sheets of canvas in an attempt to fish Charlie out of the rubble. Thankfully, the younger man popped his head out a moment later, looking disgruntled and embarrassed but unharmed. Immediately, his expression shifted to distress, and he began babbling apologies and attempting in vain to reconstruct the demolished shelter. Desmond chuckled lightly- that was so very..._Charlie_ of him. There was no other way he could think to put it. He shook his head. "Don' worry about tha', brothah. I'll get it lata'."

Charlie frowned doubtfully, but dropped the fragment of wood beam he was holding. "You sure?"

Nodding, Desmond replied easily, "Aye, it's not a big deal. The shoddy workmanship's my own fault, anyways." He shot a quick glance at the impossibly stubborn whiskey bottle, which was, of course, still lying there impassively in its little pile of sand as though nothing had happened. Somehow, the temptation had lessened, and he supposed it was because Charlie was standing there with him, shuffling his bare feet as he waited for Desmond to say something. Recalling the moments immediately before the tent had collapsed, the brown-haired man quirked an eyebrow and pointed out, "You had an idea of some kind, right?"

"Matter of fact, I did!" Charlie grinned and gave Desmond a quick squeeze on the shoulder. "Be back in just a minute, mate!" Before the other man could say 'polar bear', he was off running across the wide stretch of sandy beach and towards the denser clusters of tents. By then, people were beginning to stop and stare at the ruined structure when they passed by. Desmond didn't mind much, though- to some he offered a half-hearted 'what can you do?' shrug, and others he ignored completely. The staring hardly mattered to him at that point- he had gotten used to it.

Charlie was back in a ridiculously short amount of time with a long, gleaming object clutched tightly in one hand, and Desmond's eyes widened at the realization of what it was- an imposing-looking knife, broad blade shining brightly in the almost-midday sun. Involuntarily, he took a tiny step backwards- and to think that he had thought the morning was going so well!

Noticing the other man's obvious distress, Charlie burst into good-natured laughter and assured him playfully, "I'm not about to murder you, you crazy sod!" He shook his head, still smiling, and asked, "How 'bout a haircut? Hurley accidentally broke the scissors ages ago, but I'll manage."

By then, Desmond had completely forgotten Charlie's earlier compliment about the somewhat shorter and cleaner haircut he had worn what felt like a million years before, when the photograph was taken. He stared blankly as Charlie's question actually registered, then cracked a wry smile. "Didn' think you liked my hair short _tha'_ much, brothah." Curious, he added in a slightly joking manner, "Where'd you get the weaponry?"

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Charlie replied, "It's one of Locke's four _hundred_ bloody hunting knives. I borrowed it." He conveniently failed to specify whether or not he had actually _asked_ to borrow it, and when Desmond raised an eyebrow, he insisted with a conspiratorial grin, "Come on, mate, it couldn't hurt."

Desmond could easily think of an awful lot of things to point out on the contrary, but he decided that it was probably best not to bother. Sighing a bit in amused defeat, he sat back down, shaking renegade grains of sand from inside the leg of his pants and gestured for his friend to join him. "Have at it, then," he chuckled, taking a moment to ponder the mysteries of an island that could turn even the most normal men into hairdressers. As Charlie slid down to sit behind him, he could feel the younger man's stocky torso against his back. That presence, a combination of the heat of his body and the pleasant coolness of his wet clothes, felt rather odd, but Desmond didn't mind- he appreciated the closeness. As he felt Charlie pull a good-sized section of his hair away from his head and heard the distinct 'shkkk' of the blade slicing through the tangled strands, he quirked an eyebrow and asked. "Eva' given anyone a haircut before, brothah?"

"Course I have," Charlie said a little too quickly to be convincing.

"...With nothing but a hunting knife?"

"Well, er...no," he admitted sheepishly. He gave Desmond a good smack upside the head as the other man started to laugh yet again, and ordered defensively, "Quit that, would you?! You're moving your bloody head too much!"

Smiling wryly, Desmond shifted his shoulders and sat as still as he could, too used to the gritty sand that had worked its way under his clothes again to care about it. He gave the ever-present whiskey bottle a defiant look, as if to say 'see there, I don't need you anymore!', before his gaze was drawn to his beloved photograph. In all the excitement of the morning, he wasn't exactly sure when he'd dropped it, but it now lay in the sand next to the bottle, the only two remaining reminders of the bittersweet misery of a life long past. Smiling again, he turned away from them and focused instead on Charlie's deft fingers dragging the knife blade across the scraggly ends of his hair, and on his voice, almost musical as he chattered on merrily, as though just for this brief moment, he didn't have a care in the world. Yes, Desmond would do everything he could to always be there to save Charlie, and he finally knew why. It was because Charlie had done so much more for him- he had brought him out of his reclusive existence, had made him feel like a human being again. He had given him a purpose, and another person to care for. He had cracked the seal that had bound Desmond to his past and the mistakes he had made. And he had given him the chance to maybe, just maybe, set off on the long road to really, truly getting over it...and over her. Charlie had saved him in a way that was much more important than he would probably ever know.

Desmond smiled once again. Maybe moving on wouldn't be quite so hard after all.

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_Fin_

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If only Desmond had been able to always be there to save him like that...

Man, I had so much fun writing that, I really did. And I'd love _so_ much to know what you thought of it!

Feedback is very, very much appreciated!


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